One man's fantasy
by thrillyou killyou
Summary: John's sexual frustration leads to a confusing and unexpected fantasy, and Sherlock seems to have deduced what it was about. Slashy nonsense. John/Sherlock. More chapters to come.
1. Chapter 1

_My first ever fic! Hope you enjoy it. Stay tuned for more slashy moments and that true M rating XP_

"Bed," said Sherlock as John took one step into the room, continuing to read the case notes in his hand. John paused for a second, giving his flatmate a puzzled look. Sherlock sighed. "Sarah let you sleep in the bed. And from what I can tell," he took a deep breath through his nose, finally looking up at John. "Sleeping is all you did." He casually went back to the notes; even from across the room John could see the dark haired man's bright eyes scanning line after line of information, processing it quickly in that strange brain of his. "Do you HAVE to do that Sherlock?" he muttered, slipping off his coat. Sherlock simply chuckled, still reading the notes. John sighed, frustrated with both his flatmate and his girlfriend and, dumping his coat on the handrail, made his way up the staircase to his room.

He slipped his shoes off, slumping down on his bed; perfectly made of course. One army habit he had never been able to kick. He lay still for a second, playing over the night's events. The meal had been great, lots of flirting, plenty of wine. She had invited him back to her house for coffee and, of course, he had accepted. He hadn't said anything to upset her. Damn, she had been making suggestive comments all night. But when he had finally made a move she had said that she thought they should wait. Wait? He'd already been waiting long enough.

He began to play over how he would have like the night to end, with him screwing her senseless and waking up with her in his arms. It wasn't until a few minutes, an extremely vivid fantasy later that John had noticed how painfully hard he had become. This wouldn't be an issue if Sarah hadn't rejected him the night before. He quickly unbuckled his belt and pulled off his jeans, throwing his hands into his boxers. He groaned slightly as he touched his painfully hard cock, moving his hand slowly up and down his length.

Sherlock heard the telltale noise of jeans landing on the floor above him. Odd, he thought to himself. John wasn't one to sleep in the daytime. The detective picked up his phone, typing quickly before hitting send.

**You want to arrest the step-daughter's boyfriend – SH**

Such a simple case. He couldn't understand how Lestrade's tiny brain hadn't worked in out in two weeks what had taken him only half an hour. His mind suddenly turned back to John as a small moan made its way down the staircase. He would go and talk to him. That's what a normal flatmate would do, or at least that's what he had gathered after watching so much daytime TV. Sherlock moved up the staircase with ease, having previously noted every place in which they creaked or groaned. John's door was ajar, a beam of light cutting across the dark hallway. He was about to push the door open when he suddenly noticed the doctor spread naked and wide across the double bed, his hand working furiously between his legs.

John's mind was racing with the thoughts of what should have happened last night as his continued to pump his hand up and down. Sticky pre-cum dribbled down his shaft as his fantasy got more and more intense. Sarah was on all fours now, John kneeling behind her. He slipped himself into her with ease. God she was so wet. He began to move in her, slowly thrusting, causing her to moan and push herself back on to his thick cock. His hand continued to pump as he felt himself nearing the end. His eyes were closed, both in the fantasy and in reality as he concentrated hard. Below him, the woman suddenly turned tighter, her high moans replaced by huskier ones. John opened his eyes and looked down, continuing to thrust himself into the hole. But now in front of him, instead of long blonde hair, he saw the familiar black curls of the world's only consulting detective bouncing with every deep thrust. It was too late now. He was too close to stop. He pushed himself deep into Sherlock, causing them both to moan as John's vision went white.

Sherlock watched, transfixed on the man before him. He felt his own trousers tightening as he watched John moving his hand faster and faster. This wasn't meant to happen. Sherlock didn't get turned on so easily. But he had never seen something so beautiful as the man he lived with falling apart in front of him, letting out a hoarse, rough moan as he spilled over himself. He moved quickly, knowing that John was sure to open his eyes again soon. The detective began to step carefully back down the stair case, stopping suddenly. He was sure he had heard the other man whisper his name.

John opened his eyes, looking down at the white streaks that almost made a pattern across his stomach. He hadn't... had he? Surely he hadn't just fantasised screwing Sherlock. And surely he hadn't whispered his name as he came. Surely not. The doctor shuddered for a second. Where on earth had that come from? He fumbled on the nightstand beside him, grabbing a tissue and cleaning his stomach as best he could, his mind still swirling as he breathed hard. He had just fantasised about fucking a man, not just any man. Sherlock Holmes. The scariest part? It was the best wank he'd had in years.


	2. Chapter 2

Just days later, John got the call he had been expecting. "I just don't think it's working out," Sarah had said sheepishly. He couldn't help but agree. She had been stringing him along for weeks now, and still nothing. He was, if anything, glad to be let off, seeing as he had been stopping himself from making the exact same call at least every couple of hours for the last few days. He slumped down in the armchair, a cup of tea in his hand, watching Sherlock pluck the strings of his damned violin. He had tried not to be awkward with the detective. He had no real reason to be. But that fantasy was sticking in his mind and replaying itself at the most awkward moments. Like now for instants.

"My GOD Sherlock, would you _please_ stop that?" John's voice broke over the insufferable violin 'playing', causing Sherlock to look up almost immediately. "I could ask you the same thing," he said back, resuming the incessant plucking of the violin strings. John took a sip of his tea, immediately regretting it as the hot liquid burnt the tip of his tongue. "Stop what, exactly, Sherlock?" "Thinking, John," he said nonchalantly. "Especially thinking about what you're thinking about. I'm finding it hard to concentrate." John blushed. He couldn't know. Surely he couldn't. Could he?

"You don't even have a case," spat John. As if on command Sherlock's phone beeped. He picked it up, reading the text and rolling his eyes before standing up and making for the staircase. He threw on his thick coat, and pulled his scarf around his neck, looking at the back of the chair where the doctor sat. "Are you not coming John?" he asked, sounding almost puzzled. "Oh, I wouldn't want to put you of," he spat again. Sherlock turned quickly and vanished down the stairs, closing the door behind him, and leaving John alone in the flat.

John immediately regretted his decision not to join Sherlock as he paced the length of the room again. Boredom had been quick to set in after Sherlock had left, and now he could only imagine what sort of case the detective had been called to. He looked over at Sherlock's bedroom door, aware suddenly that after all of the time they had lived together he had not once seen the inside of his room.

He moved quickly to the door, aware that the other man could return at any moment. He turned the handle and pushed the door gently, peering in as he did. With the door fully open, he stepped through the doorway in shock. Sherlock's room was not covered in case notes, body parts and experiments like the rest of the flat. It was all neatly placed, tidy, clean. So unlike Sherlock that John would have easily believed that someone else entirely lived in this room.

He stepped through the doorway, immediately aware of the musky male smell that seemed to swirl around him. He stopped for a second, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath though his nose, letting Sherlock's smell fill his mind. His stomach seemed to flip at the thought of the other man. He shook his head and opened his eyes again. What the hell was wrong with him? He looked over at the bed, covered in a soft purple duvet the same colour as that damn shirt. The one that was, at this moment, tucked neatly into Sherlock's trousers.

John continued to look around the unlikely room, his eyes constantly returning to the bed. It looked so damn comfortable. He sat on the edge of it, sinking ever so slightly into the soft quilt and mattress. He turned and grabbed one of the pillows, squashing and pulling it. It was down, the feathers recognisable between the thick cover. John put the pillow back and swung his legs onto the bed. It couldn't hurt, could it? He rested his head on the soft pillow, his entire body sinking comfortably into the thick duvet. He closed his eyes, and Sherlock's scent filled his mind again, stronger this time. And with thoughts of the dark haired man swirling around his mind, John fell asleep.

Sherlock returned earlier than he had anticipated. The case had been an easy one. He'd know the minute he saw the girl's body that her boss had been the one to kill her, and all because she wouldn't sleep with him again. All he had to do was prove that to Lestrade, which had been simple. He removed his coat and scarf returning them to their usual place on the back of the living room door. Something felt wrong to Sherlock, who immediately turned to look at his open bed room door. He never, **never**, left that door open. He crept, placing his feet where he knew he would make the least sound and peered around the door, jumping back in shock at what he saw.

Doctor John Watson, colleague and flatmate, was curled against the purple sheets, his head resting on one of the pillows. Sherlock found himself smiling, an odd thing to do when finding an apparently straight friend curled up in your own bed. He moved to the other side of the bed, slipping off his shoes and jacket before joining the doctor carefully on the bed. He watched him for a while, fascinated by his breathing. He had never in his life seen John looking so peaceful. It suited him. He brushed his fingertips lightly along John's jawbone, causing him to moan slightly in his sleep. Sherlock had never felt any less like himself. Sure. He had been attracted to people. But never in this sort of way. This was just inappropriate for the man who prided himself in being married to his work.

John began to wake, and in the odd state between sleep and consciousness, he was sure he saw Sherlock's piercing eyes gazing back at him. He closed his eyes again, thinking that when he opened them the vision would be gone. But it wasn't. He rubbed his eyes so hard that they stung before opening them again.

"You look confused, John," he smiled wonkily, brushing some hair from his face. John croaked, trying to say something. But there were just no words. He rolled over, swinging his legs off the edge of the bed. "S-sorry, Sherlock. I... my leg was hurting. I couldn't get up stairs and I needed a lie down," god what a terrible lie. Sherlock knew that the leg was nothing but a psychological problem. "And the sofa just wasn't good enough?" Sherlock smiled, John was uptight. "I'm sorry," John said again, putting on a slight limp as he stood up and walked out of the room and up the stairs.

John had been upstairs for hours, and Sherlock still hadn't moved from his lying position on his own bed. He was looking at the creases that John had made on the purple duvet, tracing the lines with his long fingers. This just wasn't possible. Never before had Sherlock felt such wanting for something that didn't result in someone going to prison. He would just delete his attraction from his mind. Just like the solar systems. Useless and unnecessary information. And with that his mind seemed to calm. Moving onto more important matters. He rolled over, too tired to change, nestling his face into one of the soft pillows with an exhausted sigh.


	3. Chapter 3

_Please let me know what you think. And also if you want the smutty finale (:_

Days turned to weeks, John's odd behaviour seemingly forgotten as the pair cracked another case. John continued his doctoring work, despite the fact that Sarah was now completely awkward around him. He sat at his desk reading through his previous patient's notes, jotting down a few notes. His phone went off in the desk drawer, causing him to jump slightly. He sighed, knowing exactly who it would be, and decided the best thing to do would be to ignore it. Thirty seconds later, another text. And another. He pulled the draw open with such force that it nearly came off its runners and grabbed the phone.

**John, I'm bored – SH**

**Can't you just leave early? We need milk – SH**

**Bored. Bored. BORED – SH**

John rolled his eyes, texting back a quick response of "I'm sure you will think of something to keep you amused" and buzzed the intercom for his next patient.

Sherlock read the text message groaning as he rolled over on the sofa, unable to get comfortable. Damn John for having a job. Sherlock had come to love having his company, even if they sat in silence he was comfortable just knowing that he was there. Especially when he was thinking about him.

Hours passed until the door finally opened as John returned home from work, the apartment dark and still. He flicked on the light to see Sherlock lay in silence, a line of nicotine patches along his left arm. "Have you even moved yet today?" "Hmm?" Sherlock's gaze stayed on the ceiling. "I said have you even moved today?" The detective finally swung his legs off of the sofa sitting up, but not replying. "I'm going out for drinks with some friends if you want to come," John said, not expecting a reply. He moved through to the kitchen, grabbing a can of lager from the fridge and slumping down in his favourite armchair.

He sipped his drink, waiting for Sherlock's reply. "Hello?" Sherlock looked up at the doctor, "I can only assume that you're meeting them to catch up, therefore, I would only get in the way," he replied matter-of-factly.

John left soon after, quickly meeting with his friends. The drinks continued to flow late into the night, before John finally decided it was time to stumble to a taxi. He felt compelled to text Sherlock, his hazy drunken brain deciding it was a good idea.

**On way horme. See yyou im a bit.**

He looked at the writing, deciding that it was right and pressed send.

Sherlock couldn't help but chuckle at the drunken text, finding himself slightly excited to see what state John was in. He sat waiting for the tell tale noise of the key in the door, chuckling as he heard John raising his voice at the lock.

He ran down the stairs, unlocking the door from the inside and pulling it open to see a confused looking John, key in hand. "Thanks," he said, looking up at Sherlock and smiling wonkily. Sherlock laughed again. "John Watson. You are drunk." He was meant to sound amused, but instead his tone was almost predatory. John didn't seem to notice, pushing gently past Sherlock so that he could go up the stairs. The detective followed him, finding himself glancing up at John's arse, and before he knew he what he was doing, he had pinched it.

John let out a drunken giggle, the unexpected action almost making him loose his balance on the final step. "What are you doing Sherlock?" he smiled, turning back to face him. He was stopped on the stairs, completely confused about what he had just done. "You must be imagining things John. Too much alcohol I should expect," he said, convincingly as he began to walk up the final few stairs. "No," John laughed again, leaning back against the wall to steady himself. "No, Sherlock. You just pinched me."

Sherlock moved forwards. Dammed brain. The feelings were back, and stronger than ever. John was staring, waiting for a reply, but Sherlock had nothing. That was an odd feeling. He was stood right in front of John now, placing his hands on the wall either side of him. He closed his eyes for a moment, as if he was thinking hard, breathing deeply though his nose before opening them again. John was still smiling, clearly amused by the detective's behaviour.

"What're you-" he was cut off as Sherlock's lips pressed softly to his own, his heart skipping so much that he thought he was sure to pass out. Sherlock brought his body closer, pinning John to the wall, he let out a satisfying moan. Sherlock pressed harder, pushing his tongue into John's mouth. John moved his hands, bringing them slowly up Sherlock's back before tangling his fingers into his dark curls.

The kiss was rushed and careless, the men lost in each other until they thought they wouldn't breathe again. They broke apart, their ragged breaths catching in their throats. "Right..." John muttered, aware that Sherlock's crotch was pressed hard against him. Sherlock smiled, kissing the edge of John's mouth before releasing him again. John moved quickly through to the lounge, his head filled with so many confusing thoughts he felt it might explode, suddenly sober as ever.

Sherlock stood breathing heavily, one hand still on the wall. What had he done? John returned a few minutes later, smiling sheepishly. "I'm going to," he said quietly, motioning up the stairs to his room. Sherlock nodded. "Goodnight John," he said, lowering his head. "Good night," John replied, moving quickly up the stairs and shutting his door.

He fell hard down onto his bed, replaying what had just happened. And the fact that he had reciprocated the kiss. That perfect kiss. He rubbed his eyes hard, closing them tight unable to get visions of Sherlock out of his head. There was no chance that John Watson would be able to sleep now.


	4. Chapter 4

_Wow. I'm seriously shocked that people actually like this. So here is your smut lovely people. Let me know what you think. Should I continue this or start a new fic?_

Sherlock lay on the sofa again his mind wandering to what John was doing upstairs alone. His crotch twitched in recollection of the last time he had peeked into John's room, and that damn stupid kiss. Why had he kissed him? Sherlock Holmes did _not _just kiss people. Especially his flatmates. Unable to stay still for any longer, he jumped up and tiptoed near silently up the staircase, ready to apologise.

The door was closed, but he could hear the telltale moaning coming from the other side. He knew John would be concentrating, oblivious to everything around him, and began to slowly turn the door knob. He pushed the door open a little so that he could see through the small crack. John was lost in himself, pumping his thick cock. Sherlock watched until his trousers grew so tight that the pain was unbearable. He pushed the door further open and stepped quietly into the room, his apology lost in a mist of wanting.

"John," he whispered, much too softly. He unbuttoned his purple shirt, dropping it to the floor with a ruffle, undid his tight trousers and pulled down his boxers, stepping out of them as he walked towards the bed. He put his hand over John's, leaning forward so that he could whisper in the other man's ear. "Slow down," he muttered, placing a kiss at the top of John's jawbone. His eyes flew open and a look of sheer terror replaced the concentration. "Sherlock," he gasped, as the man moved his thumb over his tip, causing his hips to buck. "I want you to fuck me John. I want you to fuck me like you did in your fantasy."

Before John could reply their mouths were moving frantically against each other, teeth crashing together in a frenzy of biting, and sucking. Sherlock swung himself onto the bed, straddling John's hips, feeling his erection pushing against his bare arse. He began to move down the doctor's body, kissing and nipping at his skin. He bit lightly on John's right nipple, causing him to moan, his already shaking breath catching in his throat. He moved to the other nipple, biting and sucking, as John's gasps of satisfaction grew.

Sherlock moved further down his body, spurred on by the shudder of John's body every time their skin touched. He kissed down his stomach, down to the insides of his thighs, teasing John as he missed the area that longed to be touched. Finally the detective moved his wet tongue up John's aching shaft, taking him into his mouth. John's hips bucked, as his cock filled Sherlock's mouth, his tongue dancing over his tip as causing him to moan out louder than he had before.

"Sh-Sherlock. If you don't stop. I won't be able to..." John trailed off into another guttural moan as Sherlock's cold fingers wrapped around him. "You won't be able to what, doctor?" the dark haired man grinned, moving his way back up John's body, planted light kisses where he could. "I won't be able to fuck you," John, managed to reply through shaking breaths. "Well we wouldn't want that," he said, biting his lip in a very un-Sherlock manner. John couldn't help be let out a shaky laugh. "You," he gasped, as the other man's cock rubbed against his own. "I didn't know you were a- a slut." Sherlock kissed John so hard that he thought his lungs might explode out of his chest. Their tongues discovering each other mouths. They rolled on the bed, John now straddling Sherlock as they stayed locked at the mouth.

"L-lube?" John muttered as he gasped for air. But Sherlock couldn't wait any longer. He grabbed John's hand and took three of his fingers into his mouth, licking and sucking them before releasing them again. The action made John's stomach flip with both excitement and nerves. He moved his hand down between Sherlock's legs, prodding gently at his hole. He'd never done this before in his life. "Just, tell me if it hurts," he said, pushing the first finger into Sherlock's tight hole. The man let out a deep moan, causing John to pull his finger out quickly. "What... what are you doing?" croaked Sherlock. "I thought I was hurting you." "No pain no gain," Sherlock winked, a pained smile on his face.

He pushed his finger back into the detective. "Deeper," Sherlock commanded, to which John obeyed, pushing his finger deeper in. He pushed in a second finger, working at the spot that seemed to make Sherlock's entire body convulse with pleasure. "Mo-re," he moaned, as John pushed his third finger into him. For the life of him, John, couldn't recall seeing anything as sexy in his entire life as Sherlock Holmes squirming with pleasure and begging him for more. He continued to work at the spot, Sherlock's eyes seeming to glaze over as he repeatedly plunged his fingers in and out of his tight hole. "John," the almost silent croak came from Sherlock's dry mouth. "John, I need you to fuck me." And that's all he needed to hear.

He wrapped his moist fingers around his own length, pumping and lubricating himself before moving towards Sherlock's hole. He prodded it with his tip, positioning himself, making eye contact with the other man, whose eyes seemed to plead that he hurried up. John eased himself into Sherlock, shocked at how tight he was, considering how far his fingers had stretched him just moments before. Sherlock winced and wrapped his arms across John's back, pulling him down on top of him. "Do it quickly. The quicker the better," moaned Sherlock, both pain and pleasure playing across his face. John pulled almost all of the way out before plunging back into the detective, who responded by digging his teeth into John's shoulder and his finger nails into his buttocks. John let out a pained moan but continued to push in and out, finding a pace that Sherlock seemed to enjoy. His moans of pain turned to ones of pleasure as the doctor pounded him relentlessly.

"John... Nghh... John," Sherlock muttered pulling his head up to meet the other man's, biting down softly on John's lower lip and planting kisses along his jaw bone and shoulder as he continued to push into him. John shifted ever so slightly, and Sherlock let out a noise that can only be described as animal like. "JOHN. Keep going... ri-right there," the beautiful genius was truly losing himself now as John continued to hit his spot. John moved his hand across Sherlock stomach, downwards until he found his hard cock. He wrapped his fingers around it and began to move his hand slowly up and down, not sure if he was doing it right. Sherlock threw his head back into John's pillow and arched his back as another moan left him. John smiled. Clearly he was doing it right.

He began to thrust faster as Sherlock tightened around him, feeling the familiar tension building in the pit of his stomach. Sherlock came first, spilling over their stomach's as John rode him through the waves of orgasm. After a couple more deep pounds into Sherlock, John followed suit, his whole body jerking as he came hard inside the dark haired man. He collapsed on top of him, breathing shakily. "Oh, Sherlock," he whispered, kissing his neck softly. They stayed silent for a while, only their ragged breathing filled the room. After a few moments John rolled off the detective, their bodies sticky with sweat and cum. He grabbed at his nightstand, pulling some tissues out of the box. He wiped his own stomach first before turning his attention to Sherlock, cleaning his stomach gently.

Sherlock curled his naked body towards John, trailing his fingers over the bite mark on his shoulder, framing his bullet scar almost perfectly. John rolled towards Sherlock, nuzzling into his black curls, breathing in the scent of sweat and musk. Sherlock took a breath before sitting up quickly, smiling back as the doctor. "I didn't know you were gay, John," he smiled swinging his legs off the bed and walking off to the bathroom.

John lay in shock, his breathing finally evening out. Sherlock returned, his naked body causing John to blush uncontrollably. Sherlock got back into the bed, under the covers this time, rolling back towards John, who quickly got joined him under the covers, far too aware that he too was naked, and almost certainly still drunk.

Sherlock wrapped his long arm across John's chest, intertwining his legs between the doctor's. "I daresay a few people at Scotland Yard have just one a bet or two," Sherlock smiled, kissing John's collar bone. John laughed awkwardly, snuggling further down into the bed. Sherlock rested his head on John's chest, counting every beat of his calming heart as the pair fell asleep in each other's arms.


	5. Chapter 5

John groaned, rolling over and immediately stretching his arm outwards, searching for the body that should be curled up next to him. "Sherlock?" he croaked, opening his eyes slowly, hoping his hangover wasn't too substantial. John sat up, his head pounding lightly as he tried to think. Had that been a dream? The room said differently. The bed sheets were crooked and creased, and the room smelt like a mist of sex and Sherlock. "Definitely real," John sighed to himself, swinging his legs off the bed and stretching upwards, his joints cracking and his muscles aching.

Sherlock sat on the arm chair, waiting impatiently for his flatmate to come down stairs. He threw his head back letting out a nervous groan as he heard John making his way slowly down the stairs. He looked dishevelled, his light hair sticking out at awkward angles, his pyjamas hanging off him. He must have put them on quickly.

"Morning Sherlock," John smiled crookedly, picking up the post from the table. He flicked through quickly, glancing up at Sherlock every-so-often. "Sherlock?" he said, bending slightly so that he could try and the detective's gaze. "Are you ok?" "Hmm? Fine. I'm fine," he replied, almost forcing a smile. "Fine, fine, fine, fine, fine." "Right, well. I have to get ready for work," he smiled again, walking through to the kitchen and grabbing a glass of water for his dry throat and with one final glance at the detective he went back to his room.

Sherlock had just wanted sex. The thought was running through John's mind. He had wanted sex and John had obliged because he was drunk. And now Sherlock was acting as if nothing had happened.

John had forgotten. Sherlock hadn't thought he was _that_ drunk, but now it was clear. The doctor had forgotten everything that happened, probably brushing it off as a drunken dream.

John showered and dressed quickly, and was out of the door and on his way to work before he knew it. The day passed quickly, the flow of patients steady and pretty standard. John found himself looking at his phone more often than usual, the usual string of texts were nowhere to be seen, only confirming John's suspicions about the night before. Sherlock had got what he wanted, and now, he was more being cold and distant than ever before.

Sherlock drummed his long fingers on the arm of the chair, his brain working overtime. How was he supposed to tell John about the night before? He couldn't just casually mention it, _"Oh John, by the way, while you were drunk last night we had the most spectacular sex." _The detective snorted at this idea, hating his brain for being so ridiculous when he needed it the most.

He jumped up, unable to cope any more. He ripped the nicotine patches from his arm and grabbed his coat, heading down the stairs quickly. The nearest shop was only five minutes away, and it wasn't long before the detective was stood back outside 221b, a packet of cigarettes clutched in his gloved hand. He opened them hesitantly, taking one and putting it in his mouth. He pulled off his glove and flicked the lighter, taking a long drag, immediately feeling his body relax.

That was, until the cigarette was snatched violently from him and thrown on the ground. He opened his mouth to protest, pausing as he looked up to see John. "You..." John sighed, plunging his hand into Sherlock's pocket and taking the packet of cigarettes. "You, are bloody ridiculous." He shook his head, taking his keys out of his pocket and unlocking the door, entering 221b and making his way straight up the two sets of stairs to his room.

Sherlock followed him a moment later, throwing his coat and scarf on the door, moving straight to the kitchen and grabbing the almost empty box of nicotine patches from the side. He flicked on the kettle, leaning heavily on the counter behind him as he pulled up his shirt sleeve and began to stick the patches up the length of his forearm.

John came back down the stairs a few minutes later, immediately making for worn the arm chair in which he always sat. The other man walked from the kitchen, placing a mug of tea on the table next to John, silently making his way over to the sofa with his own mug of coffee. "What's this?" the doctor asked, furrowing his eyebrows. "Its tea, John," Sherlock said simply sipping his coffee. "Well, yes," smiled John shyly, picking up the mug and walking over to the sofa, sitting down next to Sherlock so that they were almost touching. "But why?"

Sherlock sipped his coffee again, deep in thought, before looking back to John. "You were quite drunk last night John..." he said quietly, looking down into his steaming mug of coffee. The doctor fidgeted, feeling the blush on his cheeks. He knew what was coming next; _"I'm sorry, but it was a one off." _But the words that left Sherlock's mouth were nothing like what John had imagined. "You should know... that we... well. We had sex."

John couldn't help but laugh, tea almost coming out of his nose. "Yes... What else would you call that?" he smiled, unable to stay mad at the stupid genius. "What?" Sherlock turned suddenly, facing John looking completely puzzled. "You mean to say that you remember?" "Of course I bloody remember," John was grinning broadly now, and the edge of Sherlock's mouth was starting to turn upwards.

John leant forwards, placing his mug on the floor unsure about what to say next. He leant back, glancing at Sherlock's partial smile. God, he just wanted to kiss him. "I wish you'd said something earlier," Sherlock smiled, broader now, looking at John who immediately began to move closer, drawn in by the detective. "Oh, and why's that?" he smirked, as his forehead rested lightly against the other man's. "So that I could do thi-"

"Sherlock," Mrs Hudson's voice caused the pair to jump apart like teenagers caught by their parents as their landlady made her way up the stairs. "Detective Inspector Lestrade is here to see you." "Can't we just tell him to piss off," John smiled; grabbing his tea and moving quickly back to the armchair.

John watched Sherlock talking to Lestrade, not really listening to a word they were saying. He was watching Sherlock's mouth, the way his cupid's bow dipped perfectly, how he smiled as Lestrade told him about the case. "John?" he was suddenly aware that the two men were both looking at him, Lestrade clearly waiting for an answer. Sherlock simply looked amused. "What do you think?" Lestrade was waiting for his answer. Behind the detective Sherlock nodded biting his lip to stifle his laugh. "Urrm... yes," John hesitated.

Sherlock shot up, and grabbed his coat throwing it on and wrapping his scarf around his neck, "Come on John," he grinned as Lestrade walked back down the stairs. He grabbed the doctor's hand, pulling him up and towards the stairs. "We have a murder to solve."


	6. Chapter 6

**Sorry in advance for how short this chapter is (: I will make it up to you with smut, soon I promise.**

The case was difficult, even by Sherlock's standards. False leads, dead ends. Evidence that led the team off of wild goose chases across London and then faded to nothing. They were never alone. 221b Baker Street had become the centre of the operation, articles and evidence covering every surface and wall. Lestrade had practically moved in.

"There must be something," Sherlock said to himself, pacing along the wall, looking at every piece of evidence. "It's got to be here somewhere. We're missing something that's right in front of us." He was getting aggravated now. Sherlock Holmes did _not _miss things. He slumped down onto the sofa, grabbing a pile of crime scene photos, his eyes darting from picture to picture. He glanced up at John now and again, losing his train of thought.

He sighed, throwing his head back in frustration, tossing the photos carelessly across the floor and stood up, grabbing one of the folders of notes from his desk and sitting back down. "I never thought I'd say this, Sherlock. But you seem distracted," Lestrade broke the silence, causing Sherlock and John to look up. Sherlock simply raised his hand, asking for silence as he continued to read the notes, muttering to himself, determined to find something.

John watched Sherlock, mesmerized as the detective flicked though notes, making comments about small things that they had missed before. "John, are you alright?" Lestrade's voice broke over Sherlock's muttering. John blinked, his eyes finally leaving his flat mate. "Oh, I'm f-fine," he yawned, bringing his hand to his face. Juggling the case with the surgery was taking its toll on the doctor. He hadn't had a full night's sleep since god knows when. But what was bothering him even more was the fact that he hadn't felt Sherlock's lips against his own for almost a week.

"Go and get some sleep, John," Sherlock smiled slightly, looking up from his notes. He wanted to take John is his arms and hold him until he fell to sleep. He wanted to kiss him. Hell, he just wanted to be close to him. Lestrade looked at his watch, sighing and throwing down his papers. "I should get home," he said, already putting on his coat. "Text me if you find anything." And with that, he was gone, leaving the flatmates alone.

John stood slowly, stretching his arms up. Sherlock watched intently as his jumper lifted, showing his faintly muscled stomach. "Goodnight, Sherlock," John smiled, moving over to the detective and running his hand through his dark hair and bending down to place a light kiss on his head, before making for the stairs.

Sherlock went back to his notes, his mind now elsewhere and his concentration slipping. He hadn't slept in days, it was never a problem, but he could think of nothing better than snuggling into bed with his flatmate and sleeping for an eternity. He looked back at the notes for a second, his brain refusing to focus. Forgetting the case he ran up the stairs, opening John's door slowly so as not to wake him.

The doctor was on top of the covers, still fully clothed, his chest rising and falling with the steady breaths of sleep. Sherlock couldn't help but smile. He moved closer to the bed, leaning down and placing a soft kiss on John's forehead. He stirred and opened his eyes slowly, a sleepy smile on his face. "Come here, John," Sherlock tugged at John's jumper, causing the other man to sit up, lifting his arms so that it could be pulled off him.

His jeans were next, thrown carelessly by Sherlock along with John's shoes and socks. He snuggled under the cover, shivering a little as the cool air hit his bare chest. Before John could protest, Sherlock had thrown off his own clothes and shuffled into the bed next to him, pulling John towards his bare chest and kissing his hair gently. John draped his arm across Sherlock's chest, drawing small circles with his fingertips.

John couldn't bring himself to sleep, not wanting to waste this rare moment that they had alone. He sat up slightly, kissing Sherlock's lips softly, not as rushed as it had been the week before. They moved slower, savouring each other's touch, memorising how they tasted and moved against each other. John raked his hands down the other man's side causing him to moan and kiss John deeper, wrapping his arms around him and pulling him closer.

John pulled away from the kiss causing Sherlock to pout slightly. The doctor placed a hand either side of Sherlock's face, grazing his thumbs along his jawbones. "You're beautiful," he whispered, kissing him gently. He snuggled back down, nestling back into Sherlock's warmth. "But..?" Sherlock smiled, pulling him close again. "You need to hurry up and solve this case Sherlock. I'm starting to regret saying yes," Sherlock felt John's lips moving against his chest, his breath tickling him.

"Shh," the detective smiled, kissing John's head again. "I'll solve it tomorrow." John let out a small laugh, his eyes growing heavy again as Sherlock's fingers danced across his back, causing hie breath to catch in his throat. "You promise?" he whispered, snuggling closer into the detective's body. "Because I don't think I can put up with Lestrade for much longer." "I promise," Sherlock chuckled nuzzling John's light hair. "I promise."


End file.
